Killarney—in Irish “the Church of the Sloes”—though but a small town, is, owing to its position, the centre from which the wondrously lovely scenery of the district may best be explored, a district which has been described as “the Mecca of every pilgrim in search of the sublime and beautiful in Nature—the mountain paradise of the West.” Yet if the magical softness of shimmering wave and wooded isle, the glory of their colouring, the ineffable peace which broods over hill and vale, tempt the summer visitor to think that Paradise could not be fairer, there are dark glens, frowning mountains, and sombre passes, which but too vividly remind the beholder that on earth must the shadow always follow the sunshine, the minor note of sadness be heard, that even in this enchanted spot has the war-cry many a time been sounded, and men have wreaked their fierce passions and poured out their blood, and women, stricken to the heart, have suffered and died under these tender skies. The ruined castles tell their own story.

To analyze the charm of Killarney Vale is impossible. It is the very region of romance, and one to which fairy legend and ghostly tale seem to fit themselves better than do the commonplaces of life. There would seem nothing strange were the O’Donoghue on his white charger seen to cleave the wave and emerge on its foam-flecked shore, coming we know not whence, going we know not where, but real as when he trod his native glens, a prince and a ruler among men. The unseen world seems very near to those who have fallen under the spell of fair Killarney.

Part of this charm is doubtless due to the wonder of its beauty, the ceaseless contrasts it presents. I have seen a theory advanced of late years that, as is the land, so are the dwellers thereon; that the character of the soil determines that of its children; the rivers which they look upon, rapid and lawless, or strong and silent; the dark forest; the rich fields or the barren plains; the mysterious mountain or the gay valley, alike influence—nay, form—their individuality. There is a remarkable passage in the autobiography of a very remarkable man—Stillman (war correspondent to the Times in its earlier days), in which he speaks of the effect which a few weeks’ sojourn among the then primeval forests on the banks of the Hudson produced upon him. Over-wearied by brain work, he had shut himself away from sight or sound of civilization, from human companionship, depending on his gun for food, the waters of the spring for drink. He describes how gradually the artificialities of life seemed to slip from him, and he felt akin with grass and tree, with the skies above him, the clouds which swept over their surface, the glories of the sun by day, the moon and the stars by night. He seemed also conscious of a world of spirits, or at least beings not of flesh and blood, very close to him. Sometimes as he lay at rest upon the grass a radiant face looked down on him; once or twice a voice spoke. Above all, he felt confident he was being guided when external guidance was impossible, in black darkness, and when a mistake or false step meant death. He believed that senses we have lost revive, and that we grow cognisant of a world other than that we habitually live in, as, far away from the haunts of men, we let Nature speak to us once more.

In many voices has Nature spoken to the children of Killarney, weaving something of the changeableness, the melancholy, the deep gloom, and the overflowing sunshine of their hills and vales into the very heart of the people, making them what they are for good or ill. To them has been given vision of the supernatural region as a refuge to the earth-bound spirit from the sordid cares of money-getting; and so has a world of dreamers, for all their outward gaiety and lightheartedness, been created in the kingdom of Kerry. Dreamers we call them, but, after all, may not Jean Paul Richter’s words be prophetic, and the dreamers yet awaken from life’s uneasy sleep to find its dreams alone were true.

The name of Killarney conjures up such thoughts. It owes its fame solely to its beauty and to the fascination which the character of that beauty exercises over the beholder. For it is never the same, and every change appeals to the imagination. Who that has seen it can forget the superb tinting of the foliage which clothes the mountain sides and transforms the isles into quivering kaleidoscopes of colour, flashing back the light as the waves of a sunlit sea. Then a shadow flits from the mountain tops, and the hues change as though under the spell of a magician hidden among those far-off caves, but only to a yet richer combination. Gorse and heather, arbutus and fern, show a softer radiance, less dazzling, but more sympathetic; silvery rills course down the declivities which surround the lakes, now visible through the trees and giant shrubs, now hidden, but always with a murmur of sound like distant notes of the fairy music which once, it is said, woke the echoes of Killarney. And for those who have the hearing ear it may do so still; with unbelievers the “good people” have no intercourse.

There is a supernatural origin ascribed to almost everything in Killarney—to the lakes among the rest. These are formed and supplied by the numerous minor lakes in the surrounding mountains, and by several rivers which flow into them, having received on their way the waters of innumerable tributary streams, all finding an outlet by the rapid river Laune, which bears them to the Atlantic through the beautiful bay of Dingle.

But in long-ago days there were no lakes at Killarney—so legend says—only an extensive and inhabited valley, fair and fertile. In this was a magic fountain, which supplied water clear as crystal, concerning which a tradition existed that whoever should displace the stone over the well-head would bring destruction to himself and to the valley. It was the reckless daring of a mortal which caused the fulfilment of this prediction. One of the great O’Donoghues, to prove the falsity of a tradition which he scorned, resolved in evil hour to have the stone removed to his castle. With fear and trembling his subjects, who dared not disobey him, awaited the result, all save his favourite jester, who fled to the summit of a neighbouring mountain. When morning came the jester looked down into the valley, and saw nothing but a great expanse of water. The valley was flooded in a single night, and its inhabitants drowned. It is believed, however, that they did not perish, but still exist under the lakes, enjoying a happier life than the earth one they left, feasting, music, and dancing filling the hours.